33 Day Guro Challenge
by Laburnum Steelfang
Summary: Cheating as I'm not filling the prompts in order or within 33 days, but it's still fun. Tell me if there's anything or anyone specific you'd like to see! Be warned, this is going to get gruesome. Happy Halloween!
1. 18: Ball-Jointed Doll

"Keep up!"

Little Triss tottered after the princess, weighed down under the mountain of petticoats and lace she'd been forced into. The dress was an old one of Kurda's, too long for her, too tight around the shoulders and bunched into folds around the slavegirl's concave stomach, and the dainty silk slippers were too small. Gold rings weighed down her tail until it dragged behind her. Pink ribbons tied too tightly cut off the blood to her ears, which were dusted inside with red powder to provide a demure blush, contrasting with the sticky circles of red-orange paint slicking down her cheekfur and the charcoal darkening her eyelashes and outlining a clownish grin on her face. Kurda's talent with the makeup brush was still developing, and her attempts at grooming had only left Triss with bald patches.

"I'm so-" She gasped as Kurda kicked her shins, once, twice, and yanked her ear.

"Dollies do not shpeak! Now come, ve shall have a tea party."

Triss followed the princess, head up and eyes down as instructed. Carefully, she walked stiff-limbed, straight-backed, as doll-like as she could be, and it became easier as she went, at least until they reached the top of the stairs. The dress was definitely too long. Triss had been stepping on the hem, a piece of lace had come free, and as she tried to turn her footpaw caught in it and she tripped, bumping roughly into Kurda.

"Ow!" Kurda spun, eyes blazing. "Clumsy ischlampe,/i vot did I tell you?" She shoved Triss away; Triss tried to catch herself, failed, and plunged headlong down the stairs, landing with a horrible crack and an explosion of pain.

Triss would later have scrambled memories of the next few minutes, but she recalled her own scream and the pain and the sliding sensation in her hip, her attempts to choke back her screams and the tears washing off her makeup, a ratguard holding a spear to her throat and promising "Don't cry, princess, you can have a new doll!" Kurda ran down the stairs to kick him and shrieked that she wanted ithat/i one, and Triss felt a guilty pang of disappointment before one ratguard straddled her and leaned on her belly and another grabbed her injured leg and heaved, and she tried as hard as she could not to scream again as her hip grated too slowly back and finally, finally, popped into place. She lay still, breathing hard through gritted teeth, as the ratguards' calloused paws ran over her, checking for further injuries. She was rolled over, and their claws raked through her fur again before one pulled her to her feet.

"Sound as a bell, princess," he proclaimed, and shoved Triss back at her. Kurda nodded once, and set off down the hall, only getting a few steps before she turned back. Triss had collapsed to her knees, putting her weight on her handpaws, wet face resting on the cool stone.

"Come, dolly, I said ve vould have tea."

"What?" Triss gasped, looking up. "Princess, I'm sorry, I can't walk - my leg..."

Kurda pulled Triss upright again and slapped her face with all her strength. Triss' head jerked back, and Kurda slapped again and again. "Vot did I say? Dollies... do... not... shpeak! Do as I say!" Triss moaned in pain and pointed to her leg, and Kurda pulled their faces close together and hissed "De shtuffink seems to be comink out of your head, dolly. Shall I sew up dat tear?" Triss' lips trembled as Kurda's claws ran over them and she weakly shook her head. "Good. Now valk, or I really shall haff you shtuffed vith straw and put on mine shelf!"

Triss bit back her sobs and limped after the princess, hate boiling in her veins.


	2. 27: Extra Limbs

As soon as he learns to count, he dreams of his claw. In the day it's the last thing anybeast cares about, but at night it shows up like a flag. He dreams of being a mouse, a normal one, not twice the other younglings' height with razor fangs and maturing musk, but the Dibbuns point at the surplus claw and the game is up, they know it's him. He squirms in his sleep, their laughter echoing in his head.

He dreams of more claws sprouting, tearing from his flesh, rows of them growing up and up to his shoulders, from his footpaws to his hips, blood leaking from the new claw-beds as the skin opens for them, bones grating together and pulling apart. He dreams of falling, landing on all fours as the weight of the extra forelimbs splitting away from his body pulls him down. Two, three, ten tails emerge from his spine as the eyes opening on the back of his head watch, teeth force his jaws open and choke him as rows sprout down the inside of his throat, blocking his screams from all of his ears, dozens of fangs tumbling to the ground. He falls face-first into the gathering pile and wakes with a start in tangled blankets.

Bryony wakes before dawn and finds her throat dry and her water beaker empty. She goes to the kitchen to use the pump, and before she opens the door she hears muffled noises. She opens the door and drops the beaker.

Veil is biting down on a dishcloth, another makes a tourniquet around the paw he rests in a red pool on the table. The breadknife is halfway through his claw.


	3. 4: PiercingsBody Modifications

"Dad, I really don't think you should be doin' this yourself."

"Oh, pshaw, young feller, am I to trust the job to your tremblin' paws?"

"They ain't tremblin'!" Cheek tucked his paws behind his back to hide his lie. "Just think this is still gonna hurt 'cos if you take any more o' Sister May's stuff you'll pass out, an' you've been drinkin' so there'll be a whole mess o' bleedin'. Can't we at least leave it till mornin'?"

"No, we can most certainly not," Basil said, dipped the knife in the steaming kettle, and checked the tight bandages around each ear. "Hold the old hear-flap upright, would you, lad? The left one. That's it, nice and straight."

Cheek did so, and looked away. Basil squinted at the mirror in front of him, ran a claw along the charcoaled outline in the inside of his ear, and began to cut. Tiny sawing noises came from the knifeblade as it cut against the grain of the flesh, and Cheek swallowed hard.

"Aw, dad, how can y-"

"Shush! Needle, if y'would." Quickly but carefully, Basil started to sew the cut edges of his ear together, the clean thread pulling smoothly through and bringing the ear to a short neat point. Basil nodded, and guided Cheek's paws to his other ear.

"Looks good," Cheek said, avoiding the stitches. "Impressive. I don't reckon this is summat you coulda practiced on."

"Oh, bit o' barkcloth's not all that different. And I've had worse pains in my life." Despite his words, Basil was gritting his teeth as he started on the second ear. "You, f'rinstance," he added, and chuckled as Cheek snorted.

Finally, the second ear was clipped and sewn, and both stood up short and neat. Basil rinsed the blood from his paws. "Excellent. String, please. Not quite ready to be doin' this bit all the way, better get used t'walkin' that way first." Basil took the string, rested his footpaws on the table, and tied the toes of each together in pairs, leaving him with footpaws cloven in two. "Last bit, please."

Cheek swallowed again, nervously, and eyed the polished branches on the bed.

This part had to be done carefully, and Basil's paws trembled slightly as he worked slowly. The barkcloth straps went around his head, through a collar, under his paws and round his chest, the headstraps not fully tightened yet. Basil picked up the knife again. Cheek covered his eyes and heard wet sounds along with Basil's breath and the occasional drip of blood on the table.

"You can look now."

Cheek peeked through his claws. The wounds were hidden beneath bandages, under which Basil had pulled the skin around the base of the branches. It would heal around them in time. The straps were almost the same colour as his fur, though too broad to be hidden close up, and tight as skin. Basil pulled his chair to the window, stood on it, and struck a dramatic pose against the dying sun. "How do I look?"

Cheek beamed. "Every bit a stag."


	4. 13: Sickness

Groddil left his chair and backed up, trembling, trying not to drop the flagon. Dark wine trickled down his chin, and he licked his lips guiltily. "I'm so sorry, sire, I'm sorry. It-it looked just like my water jug, I wasn't paying attention... I'm sorry." He offered the flagon to the looming wildcat, hoping he would be spared injury. Trunn's eyes were glimmering unpleasantly and there was a smirk spreading under his whiskers. Groddil fell to the dirty floor, covering his head. Trunn nudged him with a footpaw.

"Sit up, Groddil. No, stop shaking, there's no need to panic." When he spoke like that, there was every need to panic, but Groddil sat up. The cat seemed amused, perhaps he'd escape. "You like my wine, eh? Well, then you must have some more."

"Ah, sire?"

"Drink it," Trunn said, almost kindly, pointing to the flagon in the fox's paw. He picked up his plate and offered the half-eaten seagull. "In fact, try this. See how well this wine goes with it?" Groddil knew this was not going to end well, but he picked a few shreds off the meat. Trunn glared at him and pushed the plate in his face, and he took a whole leg and bit into it, slowly at first and faster when Trunn's expression started to darken again. It tasted far better than the unseasoned fish Groddil had been eating, but fear sapped the enjoyment from it. Trunn pushed the rest of the fox's own meal at him, and he finished it up, washing it down with the wine. "Keep drinking," Trunn told him, watching with interest as the fox raised the vessel to his lips again and swallowed, again, until the last drops hit his tongue. "Done?"

"A-aye, sire," Groddil said, pushing himself onto all fours and moving to stand up, feeling more full than he had in seasons. "Thank y-"

Trunn's footpaw hit him hard just under the ribs, and he doubled up, gasping. He tried to get up and was kicked again, grabbed by the scruff and shaken hard. He fell and landed on his back, and the cat's heel come down onto his belly. Groddil panted, feeling his pulse quicken and his stomach churn. He swallowed and coughed, his mouth dry, as Trunn kicked him over onto his front; he tried again to get up and fell, Trunn's footpaw ground into his back, and his face lay in the sour-smelling dust. He saw the drained corpses of insects where the spiders had dropped them, felt the swaying of the moored ship, imagined what Trunn could do to him... Finally, it was too much. Trunn stepped backwards as Groddil coughed again and started to bring the food and wine back up. Slow, hard heaves painfully racked the fox's body, and his eyes watered as acid and alcohol burned his throat raw. By the end, he was shaking, weeping, leaning on his elbows and letting the last trickle fall from his lip. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

"Don't leave that mess there," Trunn purred, teeth glinting. "They do say the dog returneth to his vomit, and a dog-fox is close enough. I hope you won't be returning to your folly."

Groddil swallowed hard again, and comforted himself by recalling other common sayings about the interactions of dogs and cats.


	5. 26: Plants

Shadow, light and slender, took point, followed by Redtooth, while Cluny stayed a cautious pace behind, letting his lackeys test the route. Cluny was still a young rat, though the oldest of the group, but big and heavy with muscle. Shadow sniffed along, shook flimsy branches and selected the strongest, checked for traps. Redtooth bumbled along behind him.

"The scent is strong this way," Shadow murmured, so softly it was almost lost in the sounds of dripping water and humming insects. No frogs croaking or monkeys calling. Not with Cluny on the prowl.

"Heh, stupid creatures, bats. So much time in the air, y'know, blows their brains right out." Redtooth waved a paw beside his ear and whistled to demonstrate.

"Shut up, fool, they might be stupid but they're not deaf," Cluny hissed. "We need stealth on our side if we're to take on creatures who can fl-"

Redtooth, unable to pay attention to his chief's words and his own steps at the same time, had stepped off the branch at the wrong moment. The sudden removal of his weight caused the branch to shake, and Cluny might have been able to cling on if the branch wasn't wet and rotting partially through and a large leaf hadn't at that exact moment slapped him directly in the face. As it was, he slid off with an angry yell, leaving clawmarks in the branch. Redtooth and Shadow ran to the edge, but were too late to do anything but hear a tremendous splash.

Cluny surfaced, hacking up and spitting out water, and looked around to see only muddy green. Far above him, a pink leafy ring surrounded a circle of sky. Funny-looking plant. Oh well, it was better than breaking his back on the ground. If only slightly, he amended, as he realised the liquid wasn't quite water; it was unpleasantly viscous, oily, and stank of rotting flesh, scummy pondwater, and bile, overlaid with sickly-sweet nectar and with a noticeable undertone of a neglected latrine. Cluny wasn't one to be disgusted easily, but he still found himself coughing hard, struggling to breathe in the wet clinging fumes, not enough fresh air able to reach him in the depths of the plant. He made a mental note to push Redtooth into this thing when he got out, and swam over to the walls. No luck climbing; the leaves were covered with tiny downward-pointing hairs, too short to get a grip on, and with a waxy coating which his wet paws slipped off and his claws couldn't dig into deep enough. He checked his tail for the flint he'd strapped there, and found it gone. The twine must have softened in the liquid and loosened. "Damn it, I knew I should have fixed that on better," he muttered to himself. "Maybe next time I'll get a metal one..."

Something frothy floated near him; inspection proved it to be the melting remains of a slug. Actually, now he looked, the pool was full of dead and dying insects and other small creatures. A shrivelled spider here, a thrashing centipede there... The bare skin on his paws and tail was starting to burn unpleasantly. He looked down, through the murky liquid; half-sunk in the sludgy black bottom, he saw bones.

A muffled voice called from outside, and shadows were visible through the leaves. "Chief! Are you alright?"

_"I'm in the guts of a giant plant, what do you think, you fool?!"_ Cluny screeched at the top of his lungs, went under, and came up spitting. "Bleh! Get me out of this thing!"

"Can you cut your way out?" It was the first time Cluny had heard Shadow make any noise approximating a shout, and he had to strain to hear it.

"If I could, don't you think I'd have done it?" Cluny scratched at the leafy walls, gouging out chunks, but the walls were thick, and swimming in the stinking fluid with little air was weakening him. "Can you tell where I am? If I dig from here and you cut from there, I can get out!"

Shadow and Redtooth said nothing, but Cluny heard the sound of knives scraping leaves on the other side, and little by little the green light brightened as the wall thinned.

Finally, the leaves gave way, and Cluny emerged, followed by a rush of the sickly soup. He lay coughing on the forest floor, looked up at his thoroughly soaked followers, and experienced a feeling he never had before; being pleased to see Redtooth's stupid grin.


	6. 17: Tentacles

Splash! Codj burst up from the water, shaking his head, and trod water as he scowled at the laughing crewbeasts in the jollyboat. "Yah, think yer funny?"  
Widge the ferret leaned over the side of the boat with a broad grin on his face. "'Course we do!" His friend Baul nodded and snickered.

"'S bad luck ter learn ter swim, y'know," said Firty the rat, nodding sagely. "Jus' means yer die o' thirst instead o' drownin'."

Codj responded with an obscene paw gesture and a yell of "Don't care, gemme back in da boat! I'm gonna freeze ta death 'ere!" The day was hot, but the water was indeed cold, as seawater is wont to be, and Codj was already shivering and trying to fluff his sodden fur. Nobody noticed the other movements beneath and around him in the rippling water.

"Keep yer fur on!" Widge reached for a rope, and stopped when he saw Codj kicking at something. "Summat up?"

"Somethin' - hee! - slimy on me leg, must be weeds..." Codj giggled involuntarily, and kicked again. "Eep, gerroff!... Huh?"

The long slimy something oozed up around his waist, accompanied by more. The tip of one came close to the surface, and he noticed suckers and mottled skin. He yelped and thrashed, trying to free himself, but the octopus simply latched on harder and regarded him curiously through one wide eye.

"Shit! Gerrit off me!" Codj wailed, kicking and yanking at the writhing limbs. Every time he detached one, two more would wrap more firmly around him, and the mollusc's body had by now oozed up to his chest.

A nasty smirk spread across Widge's snout. "'Ey, remember that time we sailed east? An' we saw all those pickchers with the pretty maids an' the..." He waved his paws wildly, and the rest of the boat's crew grinned as they remembered.

"Aw, it loves yer! Guess a slimy seabeast would think yer a pretty one!"

"If it's gonna lay eggs in yer, keep it above yer waist - more room where yer brain should be!"

_"Not helping!"_ Codj shrieked, kicking the water into white foam and disappearing under the surface. He came up spluttering and coughing, hindered by the ropy tentacle around his throat. "Somebeast get a rope! A knife! Anythin', fer season's sake 'elp m-eeee!" His words trailed off into a scream of terror as a limb oozed under his belt, and he submerged again.

Firty grimaced. "Huh. I thought we was jes' jokin'..."

"Well, whaddya waitin' fer?" yelled Baul, grabbing for a rope. "Give 'im a paw, cap'n'll kill us if we let 'is brother die!"

"You crazy? I ain't goin' near that thing! Leastways not till it's done wirrim. Ugh..."

Vizka Longtooth chose that moment to lean over the side of the ship above them. "Yarr, wot's all the racket?"

"Um..." The jollyboat's crew looked at each other, and pointed as one at the frothing water. Codj surfaced again, screaming and sobbing, still unable to peel free and rapidly exhausting himself. The octopus's body had oozed inside his shirt, and his paws were bleeding where it had bitten him.

Vizka quickly tied a line to the rail, flung it over the side of the ship, and slid down it, swinging at the end to land in the boat, and belaboured the three crewbeasts with the handle of his mace, screaming "Help 'im, idjits, help 'im!" Widge and Baul threw out a line and Firty drew a knife; Codj managed to free one paw and catch the line, and was pulled back to the boat, still sobbing. Vizka grabbed his scruff and hauled him up, and he and Firty hacked at the struggling octopus until it detached and lay thrashing in the bottom of the boat. Codj collapsed, crying like a frightened cub and pawing at his body, as if unable to believe he was free. He found the end of Vizka's tail and cuddled it, as he had when he was very young. For once, Vizka, having seen what happened, didn't stop him.

Firty pointed at a trail of shreds of something leading to Codj's torn pocket. "What's dat?"

Codj opened his eyes and successfully controlled his voice enough to say "Oh, dried fish. I wiz 'ungry when we set out..."

"Ah, dere's yer problem!" Firty said, patting him gently. "So was it. Musta smelled da fish, see, it bit through right 'ere, an' it jes' wanted to 'ang on long enough ter finish eatin'. 'Twasn't... doin' wot we thought at all."

"Oh thank fates..." Codj uncurled, looked up at his brother, and giggled.

Vizka nudged him with a footpaw and grumbled "Good, now quit cryin', the sea's deep enough."

Codj took a vindictive delight in the octopus stew Glurma served that evening.


	7. 30: Monstrous

His bones are creaking out of shape, body growing and legs growing faster until his head pushes branches out of the way, scratching up his face. He clutches at his tail for comfort and it dissolves between his claws, his fur is showering the ground, leaving tattered tufts on his head and jaw. His skull bulges and his wails of pain and horror pour from a blunted, shrinking snout; his stomach churns in an unfamiliar manner, and he coughs up bile as he's seen foxes and weasels do, coating his shortened front teeth and sprouting canines. He claws at himself as if to peel the change away, and his claws fall out, replaced by useless flattened stubs. He tries to curl up, and his spine will no longer obey.

That damn seer Miggo is watching, smiling, twisting his claws and pulling Sneezewort's body into its new shape as he would a puppet's strings.

"I told yer not to cross me, but a toad's too good fer ya."

Sneezewort screams and wakes, strokes his familiar fur in relief, and presses closer to the snoring Lousewort's back, shivering.


	8. 33: Beaten UpBruising

When he was a pup, Martin one day complained of a terrible headache. His friend Timbal nodded sympathetically, and then kicked him in the shins. Martin used several words his grandmother would have clipped his ears for saying, and asked Timbal why he did that. Timbal responded "Well, now you don't care about your head hurting, do you?"

He thinks of that now, as he shields his head beneath paws with bloody knuckles and broken claws, his tail broken beneath the boots of the hulking rat. He kicks, and catches the rat's knees, knocking her off-balance. Her lanky mate clutches his broken snout in one paw and rains down blows on Martin with the stick in the other. Martin grabs the stick and pulls, the rat goes down, and they tussle on the ground.

Martin could draw his father's sword and stop this in seconds, but he doesn't want to. The rats were indeed robbing the farm, their ill-gotten gains spilling from the sack the male had hit him with and dropped mid-fight, but all they were taking was a few vegetables, nothing irreplaceable. He had found them skulking around the edge of the field, at the far side from the cabin in which the owners still slept obliviously; from their conversation he had decided they meant no direct harm to the family, merely to get the food and get out. He will not risk slaying them.

Eventually, the rats flee, bruised and battered, not bothering to pick up the sack of stolen vegetables. Martin ties the sack closed to protect the food inside from elements and insects, painfully and slowly stands up with the help of the discarded stick, and leaves without bothering to alert the owners. The rats will likely not be back for at least a while, and a hero needs no thanks.

Martin binds his wounds himself, trying not to think about a soft voice and slender paws which helped him before. He ties the bandage too tightly around his broken tail, and his memories and his heart hurt a little less.


	9. 1: Amputation

He wasn't going to make it. Agarnu sprawled face-down on the forest floor, weeping into the mulch. He hadn't noticed his injured leg had got caught between two roots until he'd fallen. Bad sign. Numbness might have been a blessed relief from the pain, but if he'd heard correctly in his lessons, it meant the limb couldn't be saved.

He had been fortunate in a way; he hadn't received a full dose of venom. If he had, he'd have died quickly. That might have been better, he thought, wondering how long he could be trapped. Inhaling the leaf mould had refreshed his sense of smell, and he wished it hadn't. Oh seasons, the istink./i He buried his snout in the musty soil again instead, held a pawful to his nose as he curled up to examine the bloated blackened mess of his footpaw. It was cold as a dead fish, and when he pressed lightly on it, clear fluid and another burst of that carrion smell emerged. He tried again to pull free, but the blood and pus was too sticky to lubricate the way, and the swelling was only getting worse.

He didn't know if any of his father's crew had survived, so he couldn't rely on rescue. He didn't know if the snakes had survived, or if there might be other predators or territorial locals around. He didn't know how long it would take him to starve to death, or if his injuries would kill him first.

His sword had fallen out of his reach when he got trapped. He stretched as far as he could, and his claws merely pushed the hilt further away.

Agarnu swallowed hard, twisted his head down to his knee, and started chewing.


	10. 5: MaskCovered EyesCovered Mouth

They'd bound a rag over his eyes before they dragged him away, and when he cried out they bound his mouth shut too. As he was forced to walk he tried to memorise the route, but the taunts and shouting and the crack of a willow switch on his back drowned out the forming memories of his footpaws' movements.

They never took the blindfold off, and only pulled the gag aside to force water and food down his throat, even as he tried to spit out the wilting vegetables and sticky fishbones or, worse, the meat of beasts he'd heard screaming seconds before. Sometimes he hoped to choke on it. He fainted when they sawed his tail off, and he realised where it went when they fed him the next morning.

He broke the ropes on his paws, and kept it hidden until nightfall. A filthy cloak, stolen from a sleeping fox, blended him in with the dark and dirt, and the few vermin awake saw nothing as he slid from one to the next and slipped a blade into their necks.

It took him days to get home. By the last day he had to crawl. He was taken inside and fed and bathed and bandaged, and when he was asked, he put on the invisible mask of his old self and said "I'm fine."


	11. 21: Breathplay

"N-no, please... aaccck..."

"Head up!" Dotti grabbed the stoat's whiskers and yanked up, pointing his snout at the sky. The captives had been lined up by height, kneeling on the sand, each at the footpaws of a hare holding a length of rope. Brocktree stood behind them, just in the peripheral vision of the rat at one end of the line. The remaining hares picked up the discarded vermin's uniforms, bundled them, and hurled them into the sea. A weasel tried to cover himself and Southpaw kicked his elbow until he returned his paws to behind his back, where the hare firmly bound them.

The vermin tensed as something pressed to the backs of their necks, some panicking and trying to get up before their respective hares held them still. It proved to be only a long piece of wood, not a blade, but this did not relax them, and they were soon proved right to be fearful. A spearhaft matching the one behind them was hooked under their chins, and the huge paws of Lord Brocktree twisted the metal heads as if they were paper; within seconds, the necks of the captives were tightly gripped, their chins held up, the breath of some unfortunates with broader necks already coming in rasping gurgles.

"I'd advise you to stay calm," said the badger sternly, grabbing a sobbing weasel's ear. The weasel was drooling, breathing rapidly through her nose. "Deep breaths and you'll be fine. I'd rather you didn't choke now. Unlike you, I don't want to slay a defenceless creature."

"That's it, fellers, deep breaths and stop squirmin' so much." Dotti strutted around the end of the line and along in front until she reached the particularly frightened-looking stoat. "Stop moping, bucko," she said, nudging him in the belly with her footpaw. Something brushed her ankle; she looked down and leapt away, screaming in disgust. "Oh, I do say! I know I'm a fatal beauty but that's a bit much, really! Just be glad I won't kick a bound beast, you-"

"Eh?" Brocktree looked, and the stoat cringed, ears crimson, unable to curl up as he obviously wanted to do. "Ah. Nothing to worry about, Dotti, it looks like I tightened this too far. That happens sometimes when a beast is strangled, something to do with blood flow."

"Really? Seems silly, it's in the opposite direction from his heart than his neck is."

"Yes. Ask the healers why, I don't know."

"Oh. Oh dear, my apologies, stoaty feller," said Dotti, bowing briefly and ignoring the stoat's furious glare as every other beast in sight, woodlander or vermin, stared at him. Some beasts burst into snickers, and he couldn't even turn his head to see who. He curled his tail up for cover and shifted his legs, which didn't help, even when the slightly loosened restraints slid to his shoulders and he could breathe again.

* * *

When submerged, wooden spearhafts tend to swell up. In this case, the ones pressed across the throats of the defeated vermin were squeezing harder with every step. A rat passed out, and the others in the row cursed and struggled with the deadweight. A wave knocked them over and covered them, choking them, filling their mouths and noses with stinging salt and leaving them sure for eternal seconds that they would drown until it passed and they were able to struggle up again.

The icy water was helping a little, but it wasn't cooling the unlucky stoat's blush.


	12. 8: UndeadZombie

Y'know, we might not be so different. Well, we are one way. You squeakers taste better.

Nah, fer serious, I mean it. Why'd you go a-wanderin'? No matter, 'twoulda turned out far better fer both of us if we'd stayed home. I see all yer scars, that mean you was lucky or unlucky till ye met me? Life's hard that way. Not sorry I did it, but sometimes I wish I didn't 'ave to. Wish good beasts could roam safe widout me watchin' the wilds. Like I said, life's 'ard.

Heh, lucky you. Quick an' painless, more'n I woulda got. Another way we ain't so different. Reckon I been dead a dozen seasons an' me body's not caught up. It's hot an' I still shiver sometimes. Is bein' dead this cold inside? Is Hellgates as bad as the dreams that plague me? Don't know whether I hope it is or that it ain't. Some o' you vermin I do. The ones made me this way. You, I dunno. Didn't know yer well enough. I don't judge. Not like I 'ave any hope of headin' elsewhere. Ah well, jus' more reason to enjoy meself 'ere!

They say everybeast destroys the thing they love. Is that ever more true than wid cookin'? Good food is love, friendship, family, an' to feel it ye must eat it. Aw, I'm ramblin'. Brother dear allus told me not to talk wid me gob full.

Want some? Ye're delicious, I tell ye. No? Yer missin' out. Still, more fer me.

Mmm. Lemme jes' get me whiskers clean. There, now. All done, we're even. No more hurtin' from or to ye. Could we be pals now, p'raps, now it's done?

It gets breezy in the eve round 'ere, don't it? C'mere, it's awright. Been a long time since I just held another beast. Reckon I need this, an' after today so d'you, I think. Ah, yer still warm from the fire. An' wet, eurgh, lemme jes' tuck me cloak round... Ahh. Better. See, we c'n get along now. You rats ain't so bad when yer quiet like this. I think I like you. D'you like me? Was that a nod? Aw, yer sweet. Come wid me tomorrow? Don't fret, nothin's gonna hurt yer no more, not while I'm 'ere.

Already asleep? Yeah, I oughta be too.

Nice fire, I likes a good fire...


	13. 6: Surgery

Romsca, stripped to the fur, sat back on the table in the smoky, smelly apothecary's shop, and eyed the grog bottle in the paw of the bent old fox. "Gonna pass that over 'ere, mate?"

"This? This is for me," said the crone, shaking it disapprovingly. "Drink makes ye bleed more. I need it to steady me nerves afore all the yellin' ye'll do. Take these." She tossed over a bottle of strange-smelling herbs and a thick wooden rod covered in teethmarks. Romsca scowled and drank the bottle down.

"Cap'n, quit loiterin'. I'm a grown beast, I don't need ye to hold me paw."

Conva emerged reluctantly from the shadows. "Sorry. Just... are you sure? This isn't exactly reversible."

"I'm sure." Romsca lay down, placing a paw on her forehead. "Woo, dizzy. Decent stuff yer gave me, fox."

The healer started shaving Romsca's belly, clicking her tongue in thought. "I can give ye somethin' stronger, knock ye right out."

Romsca shivered at the icy fluid poured over the shaved patch, and said "Like Hellgates yer will. I'm not trustin' meself to a stranger wid a blade widout watchin' wot yer do wid it."

The fox shoved the wooden rod between the ferret's teeth, and started to cut.

Near the end, when Romsca almost bit through the rod, Conva did take her paw, and she didn't push him away.

"Yes, I'm bloody sure I won't regret it!" Romsca snapped as Conva led her through the alleys of Sampetra, back to the ship. "Look, I'm a ferret. I won't be tied down by kits, heat smell among corsairs ain't the safest thing, an' even if I did wanna rely on me blade skills to prevent problems there I got too much I wanna do ter die o' the blood sickness."

"Good, and I'm sorry. You're my first mate, I want you to be well. Who else will help me run that bunch of idiots?" Conva readjusted his grip on Romsca's waist as he realised his claws were too close to her fresh stitches. "Do you have enough of that willow-bark stuff? Sure you can keep the wound clean? Are you sure you should be walking?"

"I've took wounds afore, cap'n, I know wot I'm doin'," Romsca said, voice slurring a little. The beginning of surgical shock and the end of the anaesthetic were combining. "Oof... ow."

"That's it, we're hiring a cart."

A rat pulling a cart accepted a bracelet in trade for a lift, and Romsca lay on the wooden seat with her head in Conva's lap, trying not to pull her stitches. Her nose was dry and pale, and blood was seeping between her stitches and staining her shirt, but she pressed hard on the wound and smiled.

"Nothin's gonna hold me back now."


	14. 12: Parasite

"I have given suck, and know  
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:  
I would, while it was smiling in my face,  
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,  
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you  
Have done to this."  
-_Macbeth_

The otter was taking to fish well, as otters did, but was not ready to live on it. Sawney had explained at knifepoint that _his_ cub needed milk, and not the greensap kind; to be safe, mustelid milk. She had opened her mouth to refuse, and he moved the knife to point at Gruven.

Grissoul watched her feed the pups each day and took the otter away as soon as he finished suckling, keeping guard over him; pointlessly, Antigra thought. Of course she would not slay him. _She_ was not the Taggerung. That would have to wait till Gruven had grown. Perhaps Sawney thought nursing him would help her accept him. He was wrong. Tagg peered up at her with innocent unfocused eyes and she hated the riverspawned brat all the more. Fat and sleek and shiny as a leech, he was, and was sucking away the tribe's sense like one too. How she wanted to crush him like one.

Otter pups grew large and fast. She had lost too much weight from him drinking it away, Gruven was thin from competing with him, and she always had a terrible thirst afterwards. The infants' teeth were coming in, tiny white needles, and blood started staining her dress, along with souring milk smudges on the inside and worse on the outside when their swaddling cloths leaked or they drank too fast and brought it back. The infants didn't seem to notice the blood in her milk. She bathed fully clothed in the river at least once daily, and ignored the taunts. Most vermin mothers didn't mind, but she would not have the stink of the riverdog on her for longer than necessary.

When Tagg cried, she soothed him and herself with a rhythmic murmur of "cuckoo, cuckoo", and he quieted and slept unknowingly. She found leeches in the river before Grissoul collected them, or plucked ticks from the pelts of others, and surreptitiously placed them on the otter's soft pawpads or in his ears, gleefully watching them grow as fat and flushed as he was as he whined and tried to wriggle free of his blanket to scratch. Perhaps it would weaken him, slow his growth; even if not it would keep her sane.

Grissoul slowly boiled fresh white fish over a low heat until it was soft enough for the infant otter. Antigra had no time after hunting for the chief's and otter's food and caring for her own pup, and nobeast to trust with watching either Gruven or a fire while she tended to the other. She tore up stale bread and sinewy birdflesh with her teeth, and sucked the resulting pieces into mulch. Gruven wailed, and she let her precious baby nuzzle her lips apart and feed.


End file.
